


Tumbling Out of A Window

by floorcoaster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Not Epilogue Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 03:56:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11455458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floorcoaster/pseuds/floorcoaster
Summary: And I don't know, Is this the part where we let go? Tumbling out of a window, Is this the part you're there for me?~ HEM





	Tumbling Out of A Window

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my beta, eilonwy1, for the most excellent job, as usual, and to sshg316 for all the fun chat sessions about deadline stress! Written for dmhgficexchange, winter 2007-2008.

**Title:** Tumbling Out of a Window  
**Author/Artist:** [this field will remain blank until the exchange is over]  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to his world.  
**Warnings:** None  
**Author/Artist notes:** Many, many thanks to my beta, , for the most excellent job, as usual, and to for all the fun chat sessions about deadline stress! Written for , winter 2007-2008.

 

 **Prompt** : Hermione can do wandless and nonverbal magic.

****

**ooo**

_And I don't know, Is this the part where we let go  
Tumbling out of a window, Is this the part you're there for me  
~ HEM_

“There’s a girl.”

Pansy Parkinson stopped mid-word in the middle of her description of a pair of shoes she had purchased the week before while shopping with her mother. Draco thought they might have been red, but he hadn’t really been paying attention.

“What!?” she exclaimed after nearly a full minute of gaping at him.

“You heard me,” he muttered, wondering why he had said anything. It must have been that Pansy’s story had caused his mind to snap, sending him into a moment of true temporary insanity. Pansy Parkinson soon-to-be-Nott couldn’t keep a secret if he promised to give her every last Knut he had once had. 

“There’s a girl you want to shag, or a **girl** , girl?”

“Nice, Pansy,” Draco said, scowling. 

Her eyes went wide. “A **_girl_? ** What girl? How long has this been going on? Where did you meet? Are you dating? Is she a good kisser? Better than me?”

Draco chuckled and threw an acorn into the lake. He’d been invited to Pansy’s for tea and afterwards they’d gone for a walk on the grounds of her parents’ estate, ostensibly to talk about Draco’s speech for Theo at the reception. Pansy had barely taken a breath; she’d been talking non-stop about her purchases during the shopping trip. Draco had suggested they stop at the lake so that he could be comfortable while pretending to listen. They were sitting on a thick blanket Pansy had Transfigured from a handkerchief, enjoying the autumn sun and cool breeze.

“You’re getting married in two weeks, Pansy. Why are you worried if she’s a better kisser than you?”

She sniffed as though affronted. “I’d like to remain at least one man’s ‘best kiss’ after I marry.”

“That would be your husband, you know.”

“I mean other than him, of course.”

“Why?”

“You know me,” she said flippantly.

He did know her, knew exactly what she meant. Pansy was shallow and vain. She wanted to be admired by everyone around her and did her best to make it happen. Draco had been astounded when she’d announced her engagement, having thought she would never settle down. He could only conclude that she really and truly loved Theo, as best she knew how, anyway.

“And you’re avoiding the question,” she prodded.

He sighed. “No, we’re not dating. I … know her from work.”

Pansy snorted. “You work in the Ministry Library. Please tell me you don’t fancy that seventy-year-old Librarian.”

“Come on, Pansy,” Draco said, slightly annoyed. A cool breeze blew and he inhaled the scent of the coming winter and fallen leaves. 

“Since when do you have standards?” she quipped.

“Well, that’s nice, Miss Pot. What about that three-month stint with the Red-Headed Blunder? At least I’m not stooping so low as to fancy as _Weasley_.” He swallowed hard, hoping Pansy wouldn’t notice that a thin line of perspiration had suddenly formed along his hairline. 

“Unless you like blokes, Draco, there are no Weasleys left to fancy, what with she-Weasel marrying Potter.” Pansy shuddered. “Besides, Ron has his … gifts …”

Draco covered his ears. “I heard plenty while you were together, thanks. I don’t need the explicit details.”

Pansy smirked. “I think you were jealous, my fickle, shallow friend. Though it was short-lived, my romance with Ron was amazing and intense. It took me a good two weeks to get over him, and you _know_ how long that is for me.”

“Indeed. I was surprised you didn’t trade up, go for one of the older ones.”

“I never saw a single hint of that same passion in Percy or George, Draco. And you are _still_ avoiding the question. You’d best tell me before I get it in my head that you fancy Millie or someone worse, like … like Granger.”

Draco cringed and Pansy interpreted the reaction as he knew she would: the idea was preposterous.

“I told you. I know her from work. We aren’t dating, it’s been nine months, and I think she might top you in the kissing department, even though we’ve never done it.” He hoped she would focus on the jab at the end, but her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Nine _months_?” she repeated. “You’ve fancied a girl for nine months and you are only just now telling me about her? What is the matter with you?” Pansy swatted his arm more forcefully than could be interpreted as playful.

He shrugged. “It’s nothing. It will always be nothing. I think I’m nearly over her, anyway. I guess I needed to say it out loud to make it real and make it go away.”

“You are not getting off that easily, Draco,” Pansy scolded. “I want details! Nine months is nearly an eternity for you! You haven’t even had a girlfriend for nine weeks!”

He shrugged.

“Come to think of it,” she continued, “I haven’t heard you talk about anyone recently. Is it possible it’s been as long as nine months? How did I not notice …? I know I’ve been busy with wedding planning, but I would like to think I hadn’t missed such a glaring anomaly as a nine-months-celibate Draco Malfoy.”

He glared at the back of his arm. “Well … that … hasn’t quite been nine months. Truthfully, this … thing is rather more of a nuisance than anything else. It’s just a small crush, easily remedied.”

Pansy was silent. He knew she wasn’t buying it, and he knew that _she_ knew he knew. Still, he wasn’t going to elaborate and she knew it.

“If you still have these ‘nothing’ feelings for her in two weeks, you could ask her to be your date to my wedding. I’m guessing you haven’t got one yet.”

That was the end of the conversation and Draco was relieved beyond words that Pansy hadn’t called him out, as he had lied about almost everything. He’d liked the girl for more than nine months, hadn’t had a shag in nearly that long, he wasn’t nearly over her, and it was the biggest crush he’d ever experienced in his life. They hadn’t kissed and he was nearly certain she didn’t even know he existed, in the fanciable department, anyway.

After a few moments of silence, Pansy resumed her red shoe story and Draco let his mind wander. The last time he’d see _her_ had been the day before when she’d come into the library with another Unspeakable. They’d headed straight for the section on the Darkest of Arts. Draco hadn’t followed, knowing one of them would eventually ask him something. He had remained in the Herbology section, his heart rate increasing with each passing second in anticipation of talking to her.

As predicted, she appeared at the end of the row within a few minutes. There was something in the way she said “Malfoy” that sent his heart into arrhythmia. Still, he was a Malfoy, and despite his much-lowered social status, he had regarded her indifferently. She had asked about a certain spell with which he was familiar, and about where she might find a book on said spell. He had given her a tired look and told her where to find the book. She hadn’t left right away, and he had watched her expectantly.

“Thank you,” she had said. He had shrugged and returned to his task. She was the only person who ever said thank you and he hated that she said it—he was only doing his job—and even more that he noticed. He imagined he would feel justified, somehow, if one day she forgot.

A splash in the lake interrupted Draco’s thoughts and brought Pansy’s voice to the fore.

“… And they were on sale, you know. Buy two get the third half-off. Naturally, I had to buy six …”

“Naturally,” he mumbled and lay back on the blanket, shielding his eyes with his arm.

“Are you even listening?” Pansy asked, annoyed.

“I won’t lie to you,” he said. After a moment, he added, “A little.”

“Have you written your toast?”

“Not completely.”

“How much have you done? On parchment?”

Draco was thankful his face was shielded so she couldn't see him squirm. “I've got a good idea of where I want to go with it.”

Pansy groaned. “That means you haven't even started. Draco, it's in two weeks.”

“I know, Pansy. It will get done. Don't I always come through for you?”

“Humph. You'd better.”

He felt Pansy shift beside him and then she exclaimed, “Oh! I've got to meet Theo in twenty minutes and I'll have to change and redo my hair and makeup! Draco, why did you keep me out so long?” she whined, standing quickly.

Draco pulled his arm from his eyes and squinted up at his friend. “Me? You were the one who spent an hour on shoe shopping, Pansy.”

She glared at him and with a flick of her wand, yanked the blanket out from under him, sending him rolling onto the grass. “Thanks for tea, Draco. See you around. I want that speech by Wednesday.” With that, she Disapparated.

Draco sat up and scowled at the space Pansy had just occupied. Another breeze blew, this one stronger than the ones before it and he closed his eyes, imagining he were somewhere else—anywhere else. Somewhere where he could finally be free to do what he wanted to do, live the way he wanted to live.

As long as he kept his eyes closed, he could imagine it: relaxing at the end of the day by the fire with a good book and a glass of wine. He sat in a large, dark brown leather chair and on all the walls around him were bookshelves that went to the ceiling of his modest yet eclectic personal library. There would be pictures on some of the shelves of his friends and family, even of his father, despite their falling out. He would hear the soft patter of feet in the hallway and he would smile in anticipation of the curly head that would soon appear in the doorway …

He opened his eyes wide in a flash at the image that had intruded his private musings. Then he groaned and sank back onto the grass. “I'm completely buggered.”

****

**ooo**

“Malfoy, you're late,” said Gertrude, the seventy-year-old librarian who was Draco's supervisor.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Sorry, _ma'am_ ,” she corrected.

He repeated his apology with the appropriate address and skulked to the front desk. With a heavy sigh, Draco touched the tip of his wand to a small, black box located just under the counter that would alert those in charge of distributing paychecks every week that he was present and accounted for, and deserved his pittance.

“Here's a stack to start with,” said Gertrude, wheeling a cart loaded with books in front of the desk. She had dark blonde hair with silver streaks through it, put up in a loose bun nearly on top of her head. She wore dark maroon work robes, black shoes with silver buckles on them, and a stern expression. “Looks like some group or another were up late last night.”

Draco nodded and took the cart from her, heading toward one of the far corners. The Ministry library wasn't nearly as big as the one at Hogwarts, but it managed to hold enough information that Ministry employees only rarely had to have books sent from the ancient school. He suspected the primary reason was that most wizards and witches didn't even bother with the library, choosing to either remain ignorant or let someone else find the information.

The one exception was she, and no surprise there. She visited nearly every day, sometimes staying for hours, other times just long enough to confirm a fact. On occasion, she took her lunch there, curled into one of the few comfortable seats offered in the library.

He knew he was slightly pathetic, watching her from the row between the Potions books and the History books, but he didn't mind. Or, rather, he had decided months ago that he had resigned himself to his new lot in life.

After the war, Draco's family had managed to stay out of prison, but at very high cost. Lucius had essentially been forced to take the role of Apologetic, becoming the face of the penitent Death Eater for all of wizarding England. Part of his punishment was He had to make right not only the personal wrongs he had committed, but as many transgressions by all Death Eaters as the Ministry could find. Lucius was required to personally search for Death Eater victims and bring them to the Ministry’s attention. One consequence of these searches was that the Malfoy vaults at Gringotts had been all but depleted. Enough remained for Lucius and Narcissa to live comfortably, but it was far from the obscene luxury to which they had been accustomed their whole lives.

Essentially, Lucius’s life was reduced to doing or saying anything the Minister wanted him to do or say. He couldn’t blink without the Minister’s permission.

Draco was a different story; he, at least, was in control of his free time and his earnings. The Ministry had required that most children of Death Eaters work at the Ministry for ten years to pay their debt to society. It couldn't officially accuse all of them of Death Eater activity, but there was enough evidence to show who had been involved and who hadn't. Draco didn't need that evidence; he had the Mark on his arm. He got a twenty-year sentence.

The Ministry had assigned him to work in the library and he had done so, for very low wages and without complaint (except in his flat, to his reflection in the mirror), for nearly seven years. The week after Pansy's wedding would mark the beginning of his eighth.

He supposed it was possible that his fascination with the girl was due to sheer boredom. He liked to imagine that he would be interested in any woman who spent even a few hours a month in the library. That was easier to accept than the idea that it could be Hermione herself.

The first thing Draco did every morning was sort the books in the cart. It saved a lot of time in the long run, and he didn’t have to return to sections where he had already deposited a book. He spread the books on the table in the back corner and got to work. Half an hour later, he was in the Ministry’s version of Hogwarts’ ‘Restricted Section,’ standing precariously on a thin, rickety ladder, trying not to make any sudden movements.

“Malfoy.”

He nearly fell. The ladder toppled over and he had to lunge to grab the top of the bookshelf and was left hanging twenty feet off the ground.

She was laughing. 

“Some help?” he said, annoyed.

“Right. Sorry.” 

Without a word from her, the ladder floated back to an upright position beside Draco. He hoisted his left leg onto the closest rung and then carefully climbed down the ladder. 

“Really, I’m sorry,” she said with amused eyes when he was firmly on the ground, glaring at her. 

“Granger,” he growled. “What on earth is so important that you felt the need to nearly kill me?”

She regarded him thoughtfully, then said, “Do you remember that case we discussed last week?”

Though Draco could honestly say that he had barely spoken two casual sentences to Hermione, they had spent a lot of time together over the last three years, increasingly over the last few months. It had started innocuously enough. Every now and then, when Hermione came to the library, she would ask Draco to help her with something about her work or a project that wasn’t going well. It usually began with her asking for help finding a specific book or section of books on a certain topic, and Draco would help her find what she needed. Then she would ask him if he knew anything on the subject and, since he had nothing better to do than read the books in the library, he often did.

They would talk, one thing leading to another, and without noticing, they had spent two hours standing in the aisle discussing Magical Theory or some other abstract concept.

“Which one?”

“The main one that I’ve talked with you about a lot recently.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I seem to be at a dead end, but I’m sure there’s a solution. Would you mind if I came by at lunch to run it past you, get your thoughts?”

It was the first time she’d ever planned to talk to him about her work. Usually it just happened that way.

“Oh. Um, sure,” he replied uncertainly.

Hermione smiled. “Excellent. I’ll see you around noon then?”

“I’ll be here,” he said more bitterly than he’d intended.

After she had gone, Draco wished he’d asked her what they were going to talk about so he could collect books they might use. It would have been far more interesting than hunting for overdue books, the task that traditionally followed the morning shelving.

****

**ooo**

At ten before noon, Draco was standing outside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, waiting to see Ron Weasley. He had checked out a book, **Magical Shortcuts** , over a month before and despite the numerous memos and late notices Draco had sent, he still had not returned the book.

Draco would wait five minutes and then he would leave; he didn’t want to risk being late to meet with Hermione.

The door opened and a head of very red hair poked through. “Malfoy.”

Draco nodded. “Weasley.”

“What brings you over this way? Someone steal a book? Need my help finding it?” He sniggered.

It took most of Draco’s reserved strength not to make a rude and sarcastic comment. He settled for rolling his eyes. “I hardly need your help, considering I already know who stole the book and where he works.”

Ron’s obnoxious grin faded. “Oh. Oh, right, yeah. Come in, then.”

Draco followed Ron through a maze of slightly worn, wooden cubicles, dodging Interdepartmental memos and even a few inter-cubicle memos from people too lazy to walk down their row and ask their mates to lunch.

Ron’s desk was a disaster, though Draco had expected no less. Littered over its surface were stacks of parchment, overturned ink wells, broken quill fragments, and a half-eaten sandwich that couldn’t have been less than three days old. 

Draco cringed as Ron sat on a small pile of memos and opened an equally disheveled drawer and began rummaging through it.

“Sorry about the book. I had no idea they’d send you after it. I think I lost the memo …”

“Some other lazy sod wants to borrow it and he’s been waiting a week. Usually I don’t have to physically retrieve the books.”

Miraculously, Ron produced the book with a triumphant grin. Draco inspected it quickly for marks or dog-eared pages and found, stuck between the end of chapter nine on Potions Shortcuts and chapter ten, Consolidating Wand Movements, an invitation to Pansy’s wedding. Draco looked skeptically at Ron, who was eyeing the sandwich as though trying to convince himself it was still edible.

“I … believe this is yours,” Draco said, handing Ron the ostentatious piece of designer parchment Pansy and her mother had chosen.

“Oh, right,” said Ron, turning slightly red.

“I didn’t know she’d invited you.”

Ron didn’t look at him. “Yeah, well. We were friends, and … we ended …”

“Horribly,” Draco finished. “She hexed you into a week-long stay at St. Mungo’s.”

Ron grinned sheepishly and looked at the invitation. “True, but … she was incredible.”

Draco frowned. “Do you _still_ find her to be so incredible? It’s been over a year since you two were together.”

“What? Oh, well, yeah. I mean, no!” he rushed. “Except … yeah, I do. I guess … I’d always hoped we could work things out.”

“Weasley …” Draco had wanted to say something snide, but the wistful look in Ron’s eyes made him pause. Pansy _had_ seemed happiest with Weasley, but she also seemed miserable at the same time, complaining about him constantly. It nearly drove Draco mad. Though, now that he thought about it, she loved to complain. “Well, I’ve got the book.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, distracted.

“So … I’ll be going now.”

Draco took two steps before Ron called him back.

“Is she … happy? At least?” Ron asked, a fierce look in his eyes.

“She seems to be,” Draco said.

“You’re her best friend. You should be able to answer that question. Come on, Malfoy. Don’t spare my feelings. I want to know if she’s happy.”

Draco refrained from telling Ron that he had never and likely would never consider his feelings, but instead he avoided the question of which he no longer certain as to the answer. “She’s not my best friend.”

“She thinks she is.”

“Yes, well. She’s not.”

“Not happy?” Ron frowned.

“Not my best friend, Weasley. Keep up.”

“So then? Is she happy, Malfoy?”

Draco sighed. “I don’t know. She’s never considered marriage before; at least she’s never mentioned it to me, even in passing or wishful thinking. She must be happy with Theo. Happy enough, anyway.”

“How can that be good enough for her?” Ron asked, suddenly angry. “She deserves more than ‘happy enough!’”

The truth hit Draco in the chest like a rogue bludger set to kill. “You’re in love with her.” Pansy had never used the L word while she was with Ron, and Draco was certain she would have mentioned it if Ron had. Theo wasn’t the first Pansy had dated after Ron, but he was the second, after a disastrous two-week affair with a man she met on holiday in Greece. 

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “I never said.”

“But you are, it’s the only explanation for your behavior.”

“Sod off.”

“You should tell her.”

“Why?”

“She should know she has options. And—Oh, bugger. I’m late.”

Ron sniggered. “Library date? What’s old Gert going to do, make you dust the shelves without magic?”

“Merlin, Weasley, you’re an idiot.” Draco didn’t wait for Ron’s response and walked quickly out of the office, then ran to the life. Naturally, because he was in hurry, it stopped on every floor between the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Atrium level, where the library was location.

Hermione was reading when he rushed into the library.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, slightly out of breath.

She smiled and it did nothing to help his state of breathlessness. “No problem. Let’s get started.”

****

**ooo**

The lunch hour flew by and Hermione asked if she could come by around three to continue. Draco reminded her that he couldn’t leave until five, but if she was there then at least during the last two hours he would be able to exercise his brain.

The problem that Hermione was working on was unlike any before. Hermione had discussed earlier phases of the assignment with him, and together they had figured out the problem she was having and how to fix it. This time, they weren’t any closer to a solution at quarter to seven.

“Want to order take-away?” she asked, picking at the corner of the parchment on which she had taken copious notes.

Draco sighed. It only made sense that the one chance he had to spend more time with her, he was required elsewhere. “Can’t, sorry. There’s a thing tonight I can’t miss.”

“Oh,” she replied, and he was surprised to hear disappointment in her voice. “Then may I trouble you again tomorrow?”

“As long as it’s not while I’m on a ladder.”

“Well, it’s no fun if death and permanent injury aren’t at least possible.”

He was so stunned at her attempt at humor that he could only stare wide-eyed at her. She laughed, and he finally smiled grudgingly. “I think I’d prefer all my bones where they’re supposed to be, thanks.”

“Fine, if you insist on being boring. What happened to your natural Slytherin instincts for trouble?”

“I distinctly remember being the _cause_ of trouble, not on the receiving end.”

She was still smiling. “How could I forget? All right then, I won’t disturb you unless your feet are firmly on the floor. When might that be?”

“I stock shelves first thing, and I generally take my time, so … by ten.”

“Lovely. I’ve got to get this done by Friday.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Left it to the last minute? That doesn’t seem like you.”

“You’re right, it’s usually not. The due date just got away from me somehow. I can’t thank you enough for all your help.”

He looked at her intently. “None of your co-workers were available?”

She avoided his eyes. “They’re busy with projects of their own, and you’ve been helping me with this practically from the start. I didn’t have to bring you up to speed.”

Draco checked the clock and saw that he had two minutes to Apparate to his flat, change clothes and meet Pansy and Theo at the restaurant where the rehearsal dinner would be held. 

“Bugger. I’m late.”

“Oh, sorry, Malfoy,” Hermione said, scrambling to gather her things and put the books away.

“Don’t bother. I’ll do it in the morning.”

“Nonsense,” said Hermione with a sly smile, keeping her eyes firmly locked with his. “I can do it.” Instantly all the books on the table started moving slowly through the air toward their places on the many shelves.

“Wait, just leave them,” Draco said. “That way we won’t have to find them all again tomorrow.”

“You sure?” she asked, and the books froze in midair. 

“Yes. Positive. Sorry to rush you, but I’ve got to go.”

“No problem. Night, Malfoy.”

“Bye, Granger,” he said, nodding once and then running for the lift.

****

**ooo**

After dinner, Draco returned to the library and was up past midnight doing research for her. It was the beginning of the pattern that would fill his days and nights for the next few days.

The next morning, he finished most of his daily chores before ten and when Hermione arrived, they worked all day, well into the evening. This night she was required for dinner, and so he worked again until past midnight. The rest of the week passed in this manner and Draco found himself looking forward to work more than he had ever imagined was possible. 

He wasn’t happy about it either. Too quickly he’d grown accustomed to the way she yawned, the way she said certain words. ‘Tomorrow’, ‘lunch’, and ‘spell’ all sounded far more appealing to him when she said them. He had also memorized her scent, something floral he couldn’t define but he would know it anywhere. The way her eyes sparkled when she laughed at something he had said made him feel as if he were on top of the world, flying, and he never wanted to come down.

He was pathetic and he felt it like a sharp pain every time he checked the clock, waiting for the exact minute when she said she might be back. He’d never felt this way about a woman, never even imagined he was capable of it. Part of him was revolted at the very idea of being to attached to someone who didn’t return his feelings. He was glad no one else had to hear what went through his mind; it was enough to make himself sick.

He thought he must be in love. Was it possible after so short a time—a week? It was true that he’d admired her, grudgingly at first, over the course of a year, and the feelings had slowly grown. However, in only one week, everything had changed: exploded, intensified. It was only this week, when he had seen her every day, that he felt so disgustingly happy. He was twenty-four, and he’d always assumed only teenagers were ridiculous when in love. He’d never been in love before, and had thought he was out of danger as far as things like humming and daydreaming and writing her name on his notes went.

Wrong.

The worst part was knowing that after Friday, it would all end. Her project would be completed, and she would return to her usual work. Draco would go back to meticulously organizing the library, keeping every surface spotless and free of dust. He wasn’t sure how he would go back to the way things were before. At least she had no idea how he felt. Whenever they were together, he kept his every action, every word carefully controlled and kept up a steady stream of sarcastic banter, insulting her and her friends at every possible turn. Instead of being upset, Hermione only gave back as well as she got and laughed, even when his jibes were at her expense. 

It did nothing to help his fragile heart, which wanted to leap every time she smiled and nearly burst when she laughed. Draco knew that he would either have to destroy the feelings he was having, perhaps spend the weekend shagging every woman he possibly could to get Hermione out of his head, or tell her the truth. The thought terrified him. She was Hermione Granger. He was … a man who worked in a library. He had nothing to offer her except the shame of who he was and twelve more years of barely making enough to support himself, with no hope of supporting even a **pet** , much less another person. 

Thursday night they were up very late, laughing and joking until dinner. For the first time, neither of them had other obligations that evening and they ordered take-away and ate while they continued to work. Reality set in after the meal and they focused on the work until Hermione nodded off, a quill in her hand, directly on a stack of notes. Draco gently woke her and sent her home.

When he arrived at work on Friday morning, depressed, she was already there, hunched over a table and surrounded by books. Knowing her report was due by noon, Draco left his work for after lunch and joined her. There was no small talk, just furious page-flipping and intense discussion. 

At quarter to noon, Hermione rushed to have the report printed with barely a second glance in Draco’s direction. A hurried ‘thanks’ was all he heard before she disappeared through the thick, wooden doors.

****

**ooo**

Draco felt an odd mix of emotions when he walked into the library on Monday morning. He wanted to be there, he wanted to see Hermione; he also knew he wouldn’t, but he couldn’t help but hope. It was one of those situations where he refused to think about her, refused to spend every moment straining to hear whenever the library door opened, and as a result could do nothing else. Every time the door opened he told himself not to look or listen or care if it was or wasn’t her. It was a nice idea.

The day moved very slowly, each minute full of absolutely nothing. By the end, in an effort to ignore the face that she had interacted with him, Draco had concluded that Hermione wouldn’t return to the library for at least two weeks.

He managed to convince himself this was true so effectively that on the following morning, he was humming as he stood atop the ladder, challenging himself to be even more daring than usual in his reshelving efforts. What did it matter if he fell?

“I thought you weren’t going to be so reckless.”

With his right arm outstretched, his back to the source of the voice, he shut his eyes and froze. So much for thinking he understood the woman.

“Morning, Granger,” he muttered, descending the ladder after he had put the book away.

“Hey. How was your weekend?”

“Fine. Did you get your report submitted on time?” He pushed the cart toward the next aisle.

“Yes, barely. I can’t thank you enough.”

“You’ve thanked me plenty. Consider me thanked.”

“Wonderful. Um … Draco?” She smiled, though it was strained. “What are you doing next Friday?” she asked nonchalantly, as though they frequently inquired as to each other’s plans.

He, however, was quite taken aback. “What?”

“Next Friday. I have a thing I have to go to and I need an escort.”

Draco paid careful attention to every word she spoke and the way she said them. _Escort_ did not go unnoticed. “Why me?” he asked, naturally suspicious. 

In the nearly seven years he had worked in the library, she had only ever spoken to him when she needed help finding something. On the few occasions he had seen her outside of work, she had been polite but only as was socially necessary—if, for example, they happened to find themselves alone in a room at a party.

“I trust you not to screw up,” she said flatly. 

His eyes widened. “What gives you the idea that I would behave?”

Hermione raised and eyebrow and glanced around the library. She wasn’t like all the other Ministry employees who taunted him, poked fun at him, used him as the butt of their jokes at office parties. She treated him with the respect he imagined that she assigned for all people who worked in libraries. The fact that they had been childhood enemies never seemed to bother her. 

Draco had decided it was because their positions were now reversed. She was the one in good standing with the community, praised as a war hero, active in the rebuilding efforts, and diligent in her work for the Department of Mysteries. She was young, attractive, and single, could get the best table at a restaurant without a reservation, and stop the Knight Bus with her smile.

He barely made enough money in his forced job to cover the rent for his flat and food, his family name was lower than mud, and everyone knew he had been not only a Death Eater, but a really lousy one. Draco had learned a certain degree of humility after joining the Death Eaters and he’d been brought even lower after his father’s release from prison. Even his supposed friends had looked down on him in school because he cringed every time Amycus commanded him to use the Cruciatus on a fellow student. 

When he’d been given to his current prison sentence, he felt as though he’d actually been lifted a rung or two on the humanity ladder. He worked for the Ministry, at least, which was more than some of his fellow Slytherins could say. They, however, would be finished in a few years whereas he still had over a decade of reshelving books. It was as though the Wizengamot had known exactly what would constitute his own personal hell on earth and doomed him to that hell for the prime of his life.

Still the fact remained that Hermione had never been the type to rub his circumstances in his face. Her slight glance around the room was her way of reminding him that he owed the public at large—and therefore individual members of it—a lot. 

He scowled. “Nice, Granger.”

“I didn’t say anything, Malfoy.”

“I know you were thinking it, though. Nasty git deserves what he got.”

She rolled her eyes. “The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”

“Fine.”

“Will you go with me?” she asked quickly.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

She smiled then and Draco realized what he'd said. “Wait—”

“I've got to run, Malfoy. We need to be there at seven. See you Friday.” 

“Granger,” he growled as she walked away. “Come back!”

“Can't!” she said cheerfully. “Meeting in five and you know how slow the lift can be!”

Draco was left confused, not knowing exactly why he was so angry about his turn of luck, and certain that she was hiding something. At the same time, however, a thought was wriggling its way into the front of his mind: he was going somewhere with Hermione. It wasn't a date; he was serving as her escort, but it was an important event and she needed someone who would blend in. 

He chuckled. He wasn't very successful at blending in, considering his colored past and the fact that everyone in the wizarding world knew of his present circumstances. The Ministry had been very vocal about the concessions the Malfoy family had been required to make, including their son working in a library for Sickles a day. 

Still, if she thought he was what she needed for this event, then he wasn't about to correct her. Friday he would show her just what it could be like, if they were on a date. 

He frowned and paused, his arm extended toward the third shelf of the History section. Friday …. There was something going on that day, but he couldn't think what …. 

Bollocks. Pansy's rehearsal and dinner were that night and as the best man, Draco absolutely could not get out of it.

He would have to cancel on Hermione. The one time—probably the only time—she had asked him to do something and he wouldn’t be able to. Draco very nearly begrudged Pansy having to get married that Saturday, and therefore have her rehearsal the night before, but that wasn’t fair at all and he knew it. Still, he doubted Hermione would ever want him to ‘escort’ her anywhere again.

Draco waited until he got off work and went to talk to her. He’d never been to the Department of Mysteries and his curiosity grew as he rode the lift down. No one really knew what they did, Unspeakables, though Hermione had told him that her job was primarily research.

During career counseling during his fifth year at Hogwarts, Draco had listed “Unspeakable” as something he was interested in learning more about. There hadn’t been any brochures about the job, so he had been forced to wait until he met with his head of house, Severus Snape, to inquire about it. He’d also selected Auror (for a laugh) and working with dragons as alternatives.

The thing about Unspeakables, however, was that they couldn’t really discuss what they did, and Snape had told him that he had a snowflake’s chance in hell of becoming one, considering who his father was. No one in their right mind would hire the son of a Death Eater, confirmed or suspected, for such a sensitive position. There was also the matter of no one really knowing **how** one became an Unspeakable in the first place. Draco had left Snape’s office with a scowl on his face, and Auror and Death Eater as future career options. Snape had reminded him that Care of Magical Creatures was required to work with dragons, and Draco would rather have eaten dragon dung than continue that class.

Now, he thought he might sell his own liver if it meant a chance at another job.

The lift doors slid open and Draco walked down a long hallway. To his left were doors he knew led to old courtrooms. Finally he reached a desk sitting in the middle of the hall in front of the very last door. A thin, wiry witch looked up at him over the top of her spectacles and an edition of “Witch Weekly.”

“May I help you?” 

“Yes. I’m here to see Hermione Granger.”

“Is she expecting you?”

“Er … no.”

The witch raised an eyebrow and pulled out a roll of parchment. “Sign here,” she said, indicating a line beneath a long list of names. 

Draco did as he was instructed.

The witch’s eyes widened. “Draco Malfoy?” She looked at him again, more critically and more interested. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait out here. That, or relinquish your wand and go in with an escort.”

Draco scowled. “I’ll wait.”

“Very well.” The witch produced a small, wooden box with the Department of Mysteries logo in gold in the center of the lid. Inside were thick cards; she pulled out the one with Hermione’s name on it. “Oh, I’m sorry. Miss Granger has gone home already.”

Draco’s stomach fell into his shoes. He wouldn’t be able to tell her until the following day, and as it was already the end of the day Tuesday, he thought she should know as soon as possible so that she could try to find someone else to go with. He really didn’t like that idea, but he had no choice.

“Thank you,” he grumbled.

****

**ooo**

The next morning, Draco was at the desk outside the Department of Mysteries before the secretary, whose name he discovered, upon poking around her desk, was Carol. He was sitting in the chair, his felt propped on the desk, reading the most recent edition of Witch Weekly when Carol arrived.

“Get up before I call security,” she said calmly, setting her large purse on the desk by Draco’s feet.

Draco smirked and obliged, keeping the rag, and stood a few yards down the hall.

“That’s my magazine.”

“I’m right in the middle of the most utterly fascinating story about where the Potters shop for things like food, nappies, etc.”

“I’m calling for security.”

“Why would you do that?”

“You’ve got my magazine, which you took from inside my desk drawer.”

Draco grinned. He was enjoying this far more than he had any right to. “No, it was sitting on your desk. I just picked it up and read it.”

Carol’s confident expression faltered slightly. “It was in my desk.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I distinctly remember putting it in my drawer last night.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s your word against mine.”

“Veritaserum,” Carol replied triumphantly.

“Fine. But I’d like to finish this article, if you don’t mind.”

“ _Accio_ magazine.”

Draco tried to hold on, but despite his quick reflexes, he hadn’t been prepared for the spell and lost his grip. He scowled. “I was so looking forward to learning where they purchase their radishes.”

Carol smiled smugly and sat down, propping her feet on the desk and opening the magazine. “You should have brought a book. You’re surrounded by them anyway.”

Draco was about to respond, and not nicely, when he heard the lift at the end of the hallway open. He glanced up and saw Hermione walking with two other men, one tall with dark brown hair and—Draco hated to admit it—above average looks. The other was only a few inches taller than Hermione and had plain brown hair. 

He scowled as Hermione laughed at something the taller man said and crossed his arms, waiting. Hermione saw him when they were twenty feet away and she looked at him curiously.

Carol spoke before he had the chance. “This … employee says he wants to talk to you, Miss Granger.”

Hermione glanced from Carol, who was glaring, to him. He plastered an extra-smug look onto his face. She rolled her eyes. “It’s all right, Carol.”

Draco smirked at the woman who had forced him into a few seconds of boredom and started back down the hall toward the lift. Hermione followed.

“What was that?” she asked.

“She was hoping you’d refuse to talk to me.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “A minor dispute over personal property. Nothing to worry about. I’m sure she’ll forget about it by lunch time.”

“Personal property?” she repeated warily.

“I was deeply engrossed in an article about Potter and his favorite brand of toothpaste.”

Hermione giggled. “Seriously?”

“It’s in the most recent ‘Witch Weekly.’ Haven’t you read it?”

“No, sorry. It must be lost in the post …” She paused. “You got into an argument?”

“Yeah,” he said, waving it off. “It was nice. It’s not too often I get to exercise my Slytherin muscles. Not exactly a lot of ways for me to get into trouble in the **library**.”

Hermione frowned and glanced over her shoulder. Carol was still glaring at the back of Draco’s head. “Carol is really pretty, Malfoy.”

Draco stopped and gaped at her. “What?”

Hermione stopped and he was surprised to see that she looked embarrassed. “Never mind,” she mumbled and resumed walking. 

“No, what on earth did you mean by that?” he asked, catching up to her easily.

“I … nothing.”

“Granger,” he said with a low, warning growl. 

“I thought you were in the business of attracting women, not repelling them,” she said in a rush.

Draco stopped again. “Wait, wait. Let me get this straight. Because **she** is somewhat attractive, I’m supposed to attempt to woo her? Just like that, automatically?”

Hermione reddened. “No, I … I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”

He was angry and for a brief moment, was elated at having to cancel on her. He couldn’t blame her for her reaction; there was a time when he **would** have tried to seduce Carol. It felt like a different lifetime. He continued to glare at Hermione, not resuming his walk. They were about halfway down the hall between the desk and the lift, a good place to talk. 

“What did you want to talk about?” Hermione asked in a soft voice.

“Friday,” he said grumpily. “I can’t go with you.”

Panic shot through her wide eyes. “What? Why not?”

Draco raked a hand through his hair, frustrated that he had to let her down. “Pansy. She’s getting married on Saturday. The rehearsal and dinner are Friday night.”

“Can’t you get out of it?” she asked without hesitation.

“I’m the best man, so … nope.”

“Can’t you try?”

“I would rather face a horde of angry blast-ended skrewts than ask Pansy if I can skive off.”

Hermione bit her lip and he could tell she was thinking hard. She didn’t look at him for a few moments; he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, waiting. He watched, fascinated, as her eyes told the story of the direction of her thoughts. He knew when she had an idea, and then when she realized it wouldn’t work. Just before she spoke, however, he saw the flash of a new idea and then reluctant resolution. 

“All right. Thanks, anyway,” she said with a small smile. 

This was it. He had no reason to ask her for a rain check, as she had asked him out, and he couldn’t work up the nerve to simply ask **her** out. 

“Sure. Maybe next time.”

She cocked her head slightly, amused. “Maybe. Later, Malfoy.”

“Bye.” Without waiting for more, he turned on his heel and walked directly to the lift.

****

**ooo**

Draco was annoyed for the rest of the day. Gertrude gave up trying to talk to him and, even worse than that, trying to get him to talk about why he was so upset. He only glared at her, feeling slightly ashamed of taking his bad mood out on her. “Sorry,” he mumbled when she walked away; he hoped she heard him.

It was only with one hour of work left that he finally decided he was being ridiculous, that it was obvious there would never be anything between them. If it was meant to be, it would have worked out, but the Fates were still against him and there was no point in fighting it. After coming to terms with his reality, once again thrust harshly in his face, he spent the last hour joking with Gertrude as a way to apologize.

He slowly made his way home, walking through London to force his new resolutions to hold. When he entered his flat, he removed his robes and just as he hung them in his closet, he heard the sound of the Floo, followed by a familiar screeching.

“Coming, Pansy,” he called.

Draco had expected to find her head in the fireplace, surrounded by warm, green flames, and so he was surprised to find her entire body furiously pacing his living room, her arms crossed, obviously annoyed. She turned on him when she heard him enter the room.

“So,” she said accusingly.

“So … what, Pansy? Nice to see you; how’s Theo?” 

“Never mind that. Explain this.” She held up a piece of parchment, but Draco was too far away to be able to read it.

“What is it?” he asked calmly.

“A letter. From **Granger**.”

The mention of her name sent his heart rate spiraling and a large rock settled in the pit of his stomach. “Granger?”

“Yes. About **you**. Shall I read it aloud?” Pansy sank dramatically onto his sofa and made a big show of readying herself to read the letter. 

“ ‘Dear Miss Parkinson: Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. Nothing is more delightful than two people finding completeness together.’ Who **says** things like that, anyway? Anyway, ‘I am writing to you because I am desperately in need of your help. This Friday night I need Draco’s company for a very important event. If there were anyone else, any other way, I wouldn’t come to you this way, but he made it clear he could not miss your rehearsal and dinner. I ask that you allow him to accompany me and find some way to work the rest out.’” Pansy dropped her arm in a huff. “The **nerve!** Can you believe her?”

Draco was staggered. He stared at Pansy, trying to think of something to say, but words refused to form themselves into a coherent thought, much less a sentence. 

“Draco, what is she talking about? Why would she need **you?** “

He shook his head to clear the dense haze that had settled. “She … didn’t exactly say …”

Pansy’s eyes widened. “She really asked you out?”

“No. It wasn’t a date; she needed an escort for some … big thing she has to attend. She said there was no one else.”

“Ha! She’s Hermione Granger. She can get any guy she looks at to go out with her!” 

Draco winced. “I don’t know, Pansy. She asked me yesterday. Maybe she had someone, but he cancelled and you know how hard it is to change plans at the last minute …”

Pansy scowled. “Yes, well. Thank you for telling her no.”

A fresh shot of pain gripped his heart and he nodded lethargically. 

Now Pansy’s eyes narrowed at him and she studied him intently. He tried to look as nonchalant as possible, but soon she gasped, bringing one hand to her mouth. “No! Tell me it’s not … **GRANGER**?”

The very last thing he wanted was to have this conversation with Pansy right at this moment, but he knew she wasn’t going to let it go, and she wouldn’t for all the Galleons in Gringotts. No, that wasn’t nearly true, but he sure didn’t have enough money to get her to stop right there.

“Pansy …”

“She’s **worse** than Weasley!” she exclaimed.

Anger flashed through him. “Not even close. At least she’s smart and attractive and a really good person.”

Pansy stared at him in disbelief for a few seconds and then started laughing. Draco frowned, confused by her reaction. 

“Oh, Merlin, she _is_ the one! Draco, when did this happen? How? Tell me everything!” She sat up in her seat, all attention focused on him.

“You’re barking. I’m not talking.”

“Do you want to go out with her Friday night?” Pansy asked innocently.

“What do you mean?”

“Things can easily be rearranged to accommodate her insanity, but … I need motivation.”

Draco groaned and sat dejectedly in a chair facing Pansy. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about it. I told you the other day, nothing is ever going to come of it.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow. “And yet, she asked you out.”

“Not **out**. To escort her to something. It’s a fancy dinner, I’m sure. She’s probably getting an award of some kind. Potter’s out of town, and it’s obvious why she wouldn’t ask Weasley. As for the rest of the male wizarding population, I can’t begin to speculate. All I know is, I was her last resort.”

“Hardly. But …” Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “Do you **want** to go, Draco?”

He sighed, all fight gone. “Yes.”

She stood in one sweeping, graceful motion. “Fine. I’ll reply to her, and then you two can discuss the details. I will move the actual rehearsal to earlier, and then you don’t have to come to dinner.”

“Why?”

Pansy smiled, a twinge of something like pain and regret flashing through her eyes. “I don’t want there to be any ‘what ifs’ in your life, Draco. They suck.” She walked to the Floo and took a handful of powder, tossing it into the fireplace. “Parkinson Manor,” she said and then turned around to him. “As part of this deal, I expect details about Friday night.”

He nodded, feeling both apprehensive and ecstatic at the same time. Pansy nodded once and then stepped into the flames.

****

**ooo**

Draco was apprehensive the next morning as he got ready for work. He was officially beyond the realm of reasonable expectation. Never would he have considered that Hermione would write to Pansy and he’d been up too late trying to settle on an acceptable explanation.

He’d tackled the big one first, determining that she hadn’t asked him because she liked him. If that were the case, she might have simply rescheduled. She’d been almost triumphant when he’d agreed and nearly panicked when he’d told her he couldn’t attend with her. Not the typical reactions of a woman who fancied a man.

Finally, he realized that for some reason, she needed _him_ specifically to attend this function with her. No one else was acceptable. Perhaps she needed to be seen with him and he couldn’t discount the possibility that she was trying to win a bet.

None of his musings cheered him at all, and so he walked to work in order to clear his mind, try and prepare for the day and the eventual conversation with Hermione. Considering the level of tenacity she’d displayed, he guessed he would see her before lunch at the latest. One thing he knew for sure: he would find out exactly why she wanted him to go with her before agreeing to.

Draco entered the library and unslung his pack from across his chest, carrying it to the front desk where he kept his things during the day. When he looked up, he saw Hermione, sitting at a table to his left, previously hidden from view by a bookshelf. She was watching him, and when their eyes met, she got up and walked to the desk. Draco watched her warily.

“You’re late,” she observed.

“I walked this morning. Gertrude doesn’t mind.” He touched his wand to the small black box and then stowed it in his robes.

Hermione bit her lip. “I … need to talk to you.”

Draco nodded, feigning ignorance.

“I hope you won’t get angry with me.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine what you could have done to merit that concern.”

“I … I wrote to Pansy about Friday.”

Draco frowned. “What about Friday?”

“You know, the … thing.”

“That you wanted me to escort you to? Why?”

She gave a half-smile. “I’m not afraid of a horde of Blast-Ended Skrewts.”

Draco almost laughed. “You wrote to Pansy about Friday,” he said slowly. “And … what did she say?”

Hermione took a breath. “That she would move the rehearsal to earlier in the evening so that you could come with me. It was really very gracious of her and it surprised me, honestly.”

He had practiced his expression for this moment: eyes wide, mouth slightly open, head tilted forward in incredulity. “She did **what**?”

“You heard me,” she snapped. “So … are we still on then?”

Draco crossed his arms. “Why?”

“I told you that already.”

“True, you answered the question, but that was before. I want to know exactly why you went to all the effort of writing Pansy. Surely you can’t expect that I would just capitulate with no more questions after that.”

“No, I suppose not. I can see how … curious it appears,” she said as though he were seeing things, attaching meaning where there was none. He wasn’t buying the act. “There’s not much to tell.”

He smirked again and leaned forward on the counter. “Au contraire, ma petit. I think there’s quite a lot to tell.”

She glared at him. “This is a very important dinner-thing. I need to look good, Malfoy.”

He nodded, pleased at having the upper hand and yet nervous at the same time. He wanted the truth, but he didn’t want to be hurt; she could so easily, and without knowing, kill him. Metaphorically.

“There are many wizards whom you could invite that would make you look far better than I could. In case you’ve forgotten, my name is nearly the equivalent of mud.”

Her eyes clouded and she frowned slightly.. Draco realized what he’d said and how she might take it, and dropped his mask of indifference to show that he hadn’t meant anything by what he’d said. She smiled.

“That’s true,” she continued. “I would have selected differently if I merely wanted to look good politically.”

He grinned. “Want to make an ex jealous, then? I’m very good at that.”

“No doubt, but no. Though I did choose you because it is generally accepted that you’re attractive.” She looked away as she said this and Draco thoroughly enjoyed how uncomfortable she seemed to be.

“Careful, Hermione,” he said in a low, teasing tone. “That was almost a compliment.”

She stuck her chin out. “I’m not afraid to state the obvious. You know you’re good looking. You **use** that.”

He scowled and shoved away from the desk, pushing the cart covered with books out from behind it to begin his work for the day. Yes, he used it; what else did he have?

“Sorry,” Hermione said, following him.

“Whatever.”

“I didn’t meant to upset you.”

“I believe you. You didn’t want to admit that you find me attractive and so you lashed out at me.”

Hermione blushed but nodded.

“Right,” said Draco, shelving a book. “Where were we?”

“You were about to agree to go with me Friday.”

“Is there any reason you want me to go, other than how I look and how I hold a fork?” He sounded more bitter than he’d meant to, but not as sour as he felt.

Her eyes softened. “Yes, Draco. You’re smart, funny; you know how to handle yourself in this kind of situation, and you’re really interesting to talk to. Don’t make me beg, please?”

“Would you actually beg?”

“If I had to.”

“You’re definitely hiding something.”

Her gaze didn’t waver and remained locked with his.

“Yes, I'll go,” he said, inserting as much exasperation into his voice as he could.

However, he wasn't prepared for her reaction. She smiled as though he had granted her the moon and stars and everything in between, sending his heart into frantic palpitations. 

“Oh, thank you, Draco! I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this!”

“I won’t forget it, of course,” he said, unable to sound completely menacing, as he’d intended. “It was no small thing for Pansy to rearrange her schedule, I’m sure. I think you owe me.”

“I completely agree. Favor for favor. Just let me know what I can do to repay your kindness.” She sounded sincere, but there was something of amusement in her voice as well.

“I will. In fact, I’ve got the perfect thing.”

“What?”

“I don’t have an … escort … for Pansy’s wedding Saturday afternoon. I wasn’t going to bother, but she’s been pestering me about it for weeks and I know it would make her happy. We can take care of our favors all in one weekend, if you’d like.”

“That sounds reasonable, even though I have to be surrounded by a group of people who at one point wanted nothing more than my friends and me dead. Saturday at what time?”

He chuckled. “I used to hate you too, and here we are agreeing to see each other when we don’t have to. The wedding is at two, so you’d need to be there no later than half past one. I’ll send you an invitation so you’ll know where to go.”

“Lovely. And if I don't have time to stop in again this week, I'll send you my address in a Memo,” she said, casually moving to put a little more distance between them. Draco noticed and it annoyed him, then he was upset that he'd gotten annoyed.

“Good. When do I need to pick you up?”

“We need to meet no later than seven. And I **will** tell you, Draco. I promise.”

He looked at her, stunned that she had admitted keeping information from him. he hated not knowing but he was also scared to know. “I won't forget that you promised, either.”

She smiled. “I have no doubt of that. Well, I've got to get to work ... See you on Friday, then.” With a small wave, she was gone.

Draco chuckled to himself; he had his evening with Hermione secured, but he also had more questions than he had the day before, and very few satisfactory answers. Still, he had her promise to tell him the truth and he wondered if he should be worried. He didn't think she would hurt him, not deliberately anyway. The bet idea popped into his head again and he realized it was the most plausible explanation for her strange behavior. She must have a lot riding on it to write Pansy, and she must only need to get him to go somewhere with her to fulfill her side.

Even if it **was** just a bet, he planned to take full advantage of the time with her to show her just what she could have, if she were ever inclined.

****

**ooo**

The rest of that day and the next passed quickly. Draco had taken Friday off so that he could be available to help Pansy if she needed him. He ended up sitting in the garden for most of the day with a book and trying to read, ignore the growing tangle of nerves in his gut, and not give Pansy any reason to talk to him beyond what was strictly necessary for the carrying off of her wedding.

Still, she couldn’t be avoided all day and accosted him shortly after lunch.

“So,” she said, taking the book out of his hands and then sitting beside him. “Tonight’s your ‘big date.’” 

“It’s not a date, Pansy.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Your big ‘night out’ or whatever you want to call it.”

“That is tonight, yes,” he said, snatching his book back from her when she wasn’t paying attention. 

“You weren’t reading that anyway,” she said with a huff and crossed her arms. “Are you nervous?”

He shrugged. “Yes. I think it’s a bet.”

“A what?”

“A bet. Probably with one or more of the Weasleys. To see if she can successfully get me to go somewhere with her tonight. I think I’d rather not know.”

Pansy didn’t say anything right away so Draco looked at her. She had an amused expression on her face. “What makes you say that?” she asked. 

“It’s the best explanation I can come up with for why she would ask me to go somewhere with her.”

“Aw, Draco!” said Pansy, patting his arm. “Don’t you have any more faith in yourself than that?”

He shrugged. 

“Are you going to try and kiss her?”

“No.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Like you would pass up the opportunity, Draco.”

“If she kisses me, then … well, I would probably return the kiss. But I don’t want to kiss her. I mean, I do, but I don’t. Not yet, anyway.”

“That makes no sense. What does it matter who kisses whom?”

“It matters to me,” he replied tersely. 

“Why?” Pansy asked, sincerely interested. 

“Be honest, now. When you hear my name, what do you think? What do people think? ‘Who’s he shagged now?’ Right?”

She said nothing.

“Precisely. This … night, this thing, whatever it ends up being … I don’t want it to be about that. I care about her and I want her to see that I can get through a night with her as friends. Just in case there’s a chance at something, I don’t want to start out with that. She deserves more than that.”

Pansy regarded him thoughtfully and then her eyes widened. “Wow, you really like her, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I still hope it happens. You could use a good snog, I think.”

Draco smiled. “I can’t even think about it, Pansy. I’m just trying to get through this afternoon until the rehearsal. Then I’ll be busy until it’s time to pick her up. No more thinking …”

“I wish you the best tonight, Draco. Who knows—maybe she’ll surprise you.”

****

**ooo**

At quarter to seven, Draco knocked on Hermione’s door. He was wearing his best set of black dress robes and a crisp white shirt and black trousers underneath. He had debated over what to do with his hair and finally decided to ask Hermione what she would like him to do.

She opened the door, poked her head around and after looking him up and down, gaped at him. “You’re early.”

“Er … yes. Good spot.”

“You said you’d be here at seven.”

“I said around seven, but no later than seven.”

“But …”

“May I come in?” he asked, taking a small step toward the door. 

“Yes, okay.” 

She opened the door all the way and he finally got a look at her. Her dress was a dark blue, almost midnight blue, with hundreds of tiny sparkles all over the fabric, more densely located around her waist and around the hem. Her hair was piled in a mass of curls at the back of her head, a few falling around her face and everywhere. 

Draco’s heart started pounding, his throat went dry, he temporarily forgot how to speak and he resigned himself to an evening of tachycardia and sweaty palms. Just the sight of her was likely to drive him crazy.

Their eyes had been locked since she opened her door and Draco was vaguely aware that he was openly staring. He couldn’t remember ever finding a woman so attractive … that wasn’t even the right word. Alluring, enchanting were more appropriate, but still not equal to the woman herself.

“Draco?” she said finally, her cheeks flushed.

He shook his head and smiled. “Sorry. Where are my manners? Good evening, Hermione.”

“Hi. Why are you early?”

He frowned. “What’s the matter? You look … ready to go.” He would have slapped himself if he thought she wouldn’t notice. 

“I … well, mostly, yes. I need to grab a wrap in case it’s cold.”

“Before you do that though, I have something for you. Not for you to keep, unfortunately; they’re my mother’s and she would disown me further if I didn’t return them.”

She looked at him warily. “What?”

Draco reached into a pocket in his robes and retrieved two thin, black boxes. Hermione’s eyes widened as he handed her the longer of the two. “I think I’ve got the right shade of blue.”

Hermione slowly opened the box and gasped. “Oh, Draco! This—this is incredible!” She pulled out a 12-carat diamond and sapphire necklace and held it up to inspect it more closely. “I get to wear this?” She looked at him.

“If you want,” he said. 

“Why?”

“You said you needed to look good. Of course, had I known you would be so breathtaking, I mightn’t have bothered.”

Their eyes met and she blushed. “Would you mind?” She held out the necklace to him and he nodded, waiting until she had turned around to swallow hard. He did his best not to touch her skin, knowing it would only make everything worse for him in the end. When the jewel was safely clasped around her neck, Hermione turned around, smiling more brilliantly than all twelve carats of diamond.

“Thank you.”

“One more,” he said and his voice sounded like sandpaper. Inside the smaller box was a diamond bracelet studded with more sapphires in the shapes of flowers. Without waiting for her to ask, Draco closed the bracelet around her wrist. “There.”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I … I need that wrap. Excuse me.”

He watched her disappear around a corner with a sinking feeling in his gut. He hadn’t given a single thought to how she might be feeling about the bet and he might have gone and made things worse with his mother’s jewelry. Then he decided he shouldn’t feel bad about making things harder for her; she was the one who had made the bet and if she was feeling guilty, that was her problem.

She still wouldn’t look at him when she returned and he silently led her out of her flat and onto the street, where a vintage 1927 Isotta Fraschini Tipo was waiting. 

“Oh!” Hermione cried softly. “It’s incredible!”

He shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal out of the car or the fact that he’d spent two weeks’ wages to rent it … and still had had to borrow money from his mother. Better to let her think it was his, or his family’s.

The ride was quiet. Hermione looked out the window, biting her lip and frowning, the entire time after telling the driver where to go. Draco had tried at first to make conversation, but she barely mumbled her responses so he gave up, feeling as though the entire evening was doomed.

They arrived outside an old, classic building in downtown London which was the home of the Institute of Magical Scholarship. From the outside, it looked like an abandoned library, but Draco had been inside on a number of occasions, delivering and retrieving books for special clients. 

Hermione stared at the façade, unseeing, until Draco opened her door. “Coming?” he said, and she jumped.

“Yes. Sorry. Thank you.” He helped her out of the car, unable to avoid taking her hand. He was amazed that she couldn’t feel what he felt; at the very least she acted as though she hadn’t felt anything. She probably hadn’t and it was all him.

She continued to stare at the building and Draco started to feel apprehensive. “Hermione? Is … everything all right?”

She sighed. “Well, yes and no. I have to tell you something. Let’s get inside first, all right?”

“Sure …” Interesting. He wouldn’t have to wait through the entire evening, which meant that she only had to get him inside to win the bet.

Hermione took his wrist and pulled him up the marble staircase and finally through the dilapidated doors. The interior was just as Draco had last seen it: rich carpets over marble floors, tapestries and paintings hanging on the walls, the chandeliers brightly lit, casting a soft flickering glow over the front hall. It was warm and inviting. Draco saw half a dozen other people slowly making their way toward the main ballroom, and he would have followed if Hermione hadn’t pulled him into a side room and locked the door.

“Um, Granger?”

“Just … give me a minute, okay?” she said, wringing her hands and pacing.

He waited patiently, examining the room. It must have belonged to the Institute’s secretary or whoever met guests when they arrived for a visit. There was a dark, wooden desk, its surface neat and tidy, a large window overlooking a small garden, and portraits of former curators and famous intellectual wizards throughout time. At present, they were all at least pretending to sleep.

“I have a confession to make,” Hermione said finally. “I am truly worried now that you **will** be angry with me.”

“Am I a bet?” he asked casually, though his stomach was in turmoil.

“A what?”

“A bet. You know, you and Weasley come up with some great idea to see if you can get me to … go somewhere with you … ‘Fifty Galleons if he believes you want to shag him’ … “

Hermione laughed, long and hard at that. Slowly Draco smiled, embarrassed.

“Oh, Merlin, Draco. I wish it were that simple. I’m afraid it’s much worse.”

His smile disappeared.

“I think it would be best to start at the beginning,” she said, resuming her pacing. 

Draco leaned against the desk and crossed his arms, watching her wear a path in the carpet in front of him.

“A few years ago, on a visit to the library, you helped me with something I was really struggling with. You were very polite and even nice about it, so I returned the next time I was having a problem. Again, you were very helpful. After awhile, I realized I was sick of seeing you in the library.”

She looked at him then, as though worried he might take her statement the wrong way; he did. “Not that I didn’t want to see **you **in the library, I didn’t want to see you in the **library**. I … I got the idea in my head to try and get you out.”****

****“Out … of what?” he asked, annoyed but reserving judgment on exactly how he felt. He had the feeling she wasn’t nearly done.** **

****“Working at the library. You’re too smart, Draco. Too smart to be stuck working there for twenty years. You should be out, somewhere else, doing something with yourself. Even, dare I think it, bettering the wizarding world.”** **

****His eyes narrowed. “Not wasting away, being no use to anyone, you mean?”** **

****“Yes! Exactly,” she said, looking at him frantically. “I mean, you were a wonderful help to me, but I could tell that you have so much potential. You kept up with me even though you had _no_ idea what I was really talking about, when I had to speak in codes and letters and symbols because I couldn’t tell you everything.”** **

****“And?” His patience was entirely gone.** **

****“Nothing materialized for awhile. Finally, I saw an ad for a paper competition on abstract magical theory, and we had talked about a few relevant topics before. I … I entered you.”** **

****“Why?”** **

****“I told you! I wanted— **want** —to see you do more than shelve books all day. I thought that if you entered, at the very least dozens of the most brilliant minds of our time would see your work, and that could lead to … something. If you win, then I think I could broach the subject of you being hired in the Department of Mysteries … if you want, of course …” She trailed off, fear and anxiety written all over her face.** **

****He scowled. “You’re right, this is _much_ worse than a bet. Turns out I’m just another one of your **spew** projects!” he growled.** **

****“It was S. P.—”** **

****“I know what it was!” he yelled. “ I just don’t care enough right now to bother saying it right!”** **

****She flinched, then stood tall. “Fine. That’s fine. You’re angry, I expected as much. That doesn’t change what I did.”** **

****Draco still wasn’t really angry with her for some reason. He wanted to be, he knew he should be, but he was also intrigued, impressed, and suddenly more hopeful than he should be about his future work situation. He was also touched at the effort she’d gone to for him, completely on her own, to put him in a better situation than his current one. If there was any chance at all that he could leave the library …** **

****“Tell me more,” he said, still scowling.** **

****“Like I said, I entered you in this paper contest. You picked the topic a few months ago without knowing, really. Since then, I’ve been coming to you now and then to discuss it with you, under the guise that I was doing research for my job.”** **

****“So last week was finishing this paper?”** **

****“Yes. I only wrote the thing; I used all your ideas, your thoughts. I spent a lot of time going through my memories to make sure I captured your words as best I could.”** **

****He couldn’t fight the smile; the corner of his lip turned up and he felt his eyes lighten. “You entered … me … in a theoretical magic paper contest, in the hopes of getting me a better job.”** **

****“I did, yes.”** **

****“Why?”** **

****“I told you, I thought your talents were being wasted.”** **

****“There has to be more to it than that. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”** **

****“You’ve paid your debt, Draco.”** **

****“Not really; I have thirteen years left, according to the Wizengamot.”** **

****Hermione rolled her eyes. “Your punishment was ridiculous. I’ve seen the others; Goyle does nothing at his Ministry-appointed job, just complains and screws around. You work, and well. You never complain; I checked up on you. Why is that?”** **

****“I know I deserve far worse,” he said, slightly in awe of the woman before him. She had put a considerable amount of time and effort into her project— **him**. ** **

****“Precisely. _That_ is why you deserve another job.”** **

****He stared incredulously. “That makes no sense.”** **

****She smiled softly. “It makes perfect sense.”** **

****“I 'deserve' another job because I deserve to be in prison?”** **

****“No, because you **know** you deserve worse. You're … you're not the same Draco Malfoy I met at eleven. You've grown up, you accept responsibility for your actions. Why shouldn't you get your second chance?”** **

****“This **is** my second chance. Behave, and in twenty years I get to start my life.”** **

****“I don't think that's fair.”** **

****“It doesn't matter! I have the bloody Dark Mark, Granger. I should be in Azkaban.”** **

****“What is the point of prison, if not to reform the prisoner? You're done.”** **

****“Says **you!** How do you know? I could spend all my free time brewing Dark potions and practicing Dark Arts!”** **

****“I'm not saying you're a saint, Malfoy. All I'm saying is, I don't think you'll be joining or starting any dark armies any time soon. You won't repeat the mistake that should have landed you in Azkaban. Am I right?”** **

****“Yes,” he admitted with a scowl.** **

****“See? Reformed.”** **

****“You are … completely …” Draco shook his head, at a loss for words.** **

****“Forgiven?” she offered in a hopeful voice.** **

****He shut his eyes tightly and when he opened them, he saw her smiling at him, full of anticipation and nervousness about his answer. “Yes,” he said, barely above a whisper. “But … can you promise there are no other reasons for Project Pity Malfoy that you haven't told me about? No bets with Potter and Weasley that you could get me a new job in three years or less? **Nothing** else?” _Please, please don't tell me you did all of this because you like me._** **

****As much as he wanted her to like him, he couldn't bear the thought that she had done everything for that reason. Somehow, it would … lessen what she had done, trivialize it in a way, and she deserved all the adoration and thanks he could give her for her honest, hard work.** **

****“No. No other reasons.”** **

****“Okay. Good,” he said with a relieved sigh. “Now what?”** **

****“You're really not angry?”** **

****“I'm really not. But … why didn't you just tell me about the paper in the first place?”** **

****“I … well. I didn't want to tell you my motivation behind the paper, and I didn't think you'd be interested.”** **

****He raised an eyebrow, surprised. “In getting out of the library? Really?”** **

****She bit her lip. “I didn't think you would accept my help.”** **

****“Ah.” He nodded. “Probably not. So ... what exactly are we doing here?”** **

****Hermione took a breath, all business. “This is the awards dinner. You were named a finalist; I got the notice on Monday morning. Basically, you'll have to talk about the paper, answer questions, defend what you wrote.”** **

****He smiled wryly. “The paper that **you** wrote?”** **

****“Yes, well ...” She checked the clock over the door. “We've got about twenty minutes. Dinner starts at 7:30 ... I really cut this too close.” Hermione reached into her purse and pulled out a small, velvet bag and dumped its contents into her hand. Without a word, something started to grow in size.** **

****“How do you do that?” Draco asked.** **

****“When I turned twenty-one I developed the ability to do wandless, nonverbal magic,” she said automatically. “This is my Pensieve. **I** have read the paper that you supposedly wrote, and that memory is in here. I want you to go into the memory and read the paper over my shoulder, so to speak.”** **

****“All right … wait, what do you mean, you _developed_ the ability?”** **

****“No one really knows. Apparently it happens sometimes. Rarely, but there have been thirty documented cases of similar occurrences in the past one hundred years.”** **

****He chuckled; of course she knew the exact number. “Maybe you’ll tell me more someday. Right now, I need to read a paper.”** **

****“I suspect that you know far more about this topic than you let me believe.”** **

****He shrugged. “I had nothing else to do this week. Hey, before I read  
the paper, I need a few more things straightened out.”** **

****“Like what?”** **

****“Like, why are you here, if this is **my** paper, my thing?”** **

****She actually blushed. “I couldn't think of any other way to get you to come than if you thought you were doing me an enormous favor. Sorry.”** **

****“Your name is on the list?”** **

****She nodded.** **

****“So ... is this a fake date, then?”** **

****“I ... I suppose it is, why?”** **

****“Good to know,” he said, glad to know that his efforts thus far would not go to waste. She would still see how things could be. “We need to be convincing, and there are very subtle ways one can behave in order to solidify the illusion in people's minds.” He winked. “I excel in this arena.”** **

****“Yes, well, you'd better excel at talking about your paper, too. Go on, read it, please.”** **

****“Then we go into the ballroom?”** **

****“YES. Read, ballroom, eat, defend. Someone will get an award tonight. It could be you. Now, READ.”** **

****He grinned. “Yes, ma'am.”** **

********** **

**ooo**

It was well after one when they finally left the dinner and presentation. They exchanged an excited, we-just-got-away-with-something glance as soon as the doors shut quietly behind them. Not a word passed between them as they descended the steps and stopped at the curb. As thought the driver had known the exact moment when Draco and Hermione would leave, the car pulled up after only a few seconds.

Once seated inside, Hermione grinned at him. “May I see it?” she asked excitedly.

“Sure.” Draco handed her the simply framed piece of parchment.

“Wow,” she breathed. “ 'This is to certify that Draco Malfoy won second place in the 134th Annual Magical Theory Paper Contest.' I'm so happy for you!”

“ **You** did it,” he said, grinning.

“I merely transcribed it. The ideas were all yours.”

“But without _you_ , there would have been _no_ paper.”

“Nice teamwork then?”

“Absolutely.”

Hermione returned the certificate.

“I'll get you a copy. You deserve this just as much as I do.”

“You were ... amazing, Draco, and not just about the paper. You had our entire table and everyone you spoke to hanging on every word you said.”

He scoffed. “ **That** is nothing special.” He had basically taken lessons on how to have a conversation, how to make small talk, how to charm the most important people in the room, and how to get what you want from anyone. Naturally, he had excelled in all points.

“How can you say that? It's a considerable talent to captivate an audience the way you did. I certainly don't have the skills for it.”

He smiled. “I must commend you on your restraint all evening. I could tell you wanted to interject on more than a few occasions, to defend the paper.”

“Or you!” she said fiercely. “The nerve of that man, saying you--”

“Let it go. I'm used to it by now. Doesn't even faze me.” He tried to smile convincingly, but he thought she might have seen through him. 

“But it wasn't true! Or appropriate to discuss ... I was going to say in public, but really, not at all!”

“Thanks for jumping to my defense,” he said quietly, looking at his hands.

Their eyes met and she blushed slightly. They were quiet for a few moments and it felt like it was very late; the low hum of the engine had him yawning. Hermione yawned too and then pulled her legs onto the seat and looked at him, her eyes deep and her expression unfathomable.

“Wouldn’t it be something if this worked?” she said thoughtfully.

“Yes, it would,” he said quietly, looking out the window at the passing streetlights. “I would owe you … well, I’d spend the next thirteen years in your debt.”

“Nah,” she said, the smile evident in her tone. “Just promise me your firstborn child, and we can call it even.”

He met her gaze and quirked an eyebrow. “Please, Granger, don’t hold back. Ask for anything.”

“Gibbons was especially impressed with you. And the way you answered their questions … it was obvious to me that you’d thought about the project far more than you let on.”

“I had nothing else to occupy my thoughts. It’s possible to think about other things while you shelve, and dust, and shelve some more.”

“True. Still, you blew me away with some of your answers. I had no idea you were so … thoughtful.”

He shrugged, slightly uncomfortable. Suddenly it hit him that they were in a very small, enclosed space, and she was looking at him in a way he had seen on the face of many women just before he approached them and applied his charms. 

“Poor Mrs. Davenport,” Hermione said with a light chuckle. “I think if you had offered, she would have run away with you this very night. I’ve never seen you turn on the charm quite like that before, and you must have thought the circumstances called for a highly concentrated dose. You were so at ease, so relaxed. I’ve been to dozens of these things and I’m always fumbling with something or other, nervous about saying too much, or not enough.”

The space between them felt increasingly smaller, as though now he could reach out and tuck the stray curl that had escaped her carefully crafted up-do behind her ear … stroke her cheek …

“I’m thirsty,” he said, pouring himself a glass of wine. “Would you like one?”

“No, thank you. I had enough at dinner.”

Draco downed the glass and felt mildly better, but she was still too beautiful for him to be able to think clearly. 

“How do you do it?” she asked. “Stay so poised?”

“Practice. Years of it. Daily etiquette lessons … not to mention my mother’s nearly weekly parties where I was required to be the perfect host.”

When he worked up the courage to look at her again, his insides exploded when his eyes met hers. She was smiling at him so dazzlingly that he nearly lost his grip on the wine glass. Then her expression changed very slightly, becoming more thoughtful. 

“Do you ever miss … being you?”

He couldn’t believe how very nearly spot on she’d been in her question and he had to wonder, not for the first time, if she could read his thoughts. He knew she couldn’t, however, because she would have long ago hexed him for letting his imagination get the better of him almost every time he thought of her. 

Draco Malfoy had once defined himself by his name, his lineage, and his money. He had been taught that blood meant more than character, more than skill, and he had once believed that all he needed in life was enough money to buy whatever he needed. When everything was stripped away, when he finally accepted and believed that blood meant very little, he had struggled to define who he was. All he had left was his lineage, full of Death Eaters and people who were full of hate. 

“I’m still me,” he said softly, unable to look at her. “I just … don’t live in a mansion, I have to work to live, and I buy my robes off the discount racks. I rather like myself better, now.”

She smiled sleepily. “Me too.” 

Draco looked out the window and was surprised to find that they were stopped outside Hermione’s building. He hadn’t noticed when the vehicle had quit moving. “We’re here.”

Hermione yawned. “Wow, that was fast.”

He got out and went around to open Hermione’s door. 

“The fake date is over, you know,” she said jokingly, letting him help her out of the car.

“Bad habit,” he said, shutting the door.

He followed her to the door and ignored every voice in his head telling him to kiss her, touch her, hold her—something, anything. He shoved his hands in his pockets and balled them into fists.

Hermione fiddled through her purse for her keys. “I … had a nice time.” She didn’t look at him.

Draco chuckled. “I thought the fake date was over. No need for these little … niceties.”

“Ha, ha. Either way, I still had a good time.”

“Me too,” he said in a low voice. 

He stared at her while she stared back for longer than he should have, and he felt the familiar burning inside as he thought about kissing her. But he couldn’t—he wouldn’t. 

A car drove by, its headlights shining on them and reflecting off the many diamonds around Hermione’s neck.

“I’m going to need the jewelry back tonight. My mother will go into hysterics if they aren’t safely in her vault in the morning.”

“You’re going to the bank tonight?” she asked, slightly out of breath. “It’s so late.”

“Yes, and I still have to put in an appearance at Theo’s ‘last night of freedom’ party.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “The bank **and** a party? I had no idea … I’m sorry for keeping you out so late.”

“Don’t be. I’ll be able to sleep soon, as I don’t plan on being at the party for long. Theo gets to sleep in tomorrow, but do I? No. Pansy had requested my presence bright and early at her place.”

She nodded and removed the necklace, and then Draco helped her with the bracelet. He stowed them securely in the boxes in which he had brought them and returned his hands to his pockets. 

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he said, taking advantage of the fact that she wasn’t looking at him to begin his exit. 

“Night, Draco.”

He turned around with a small nod and walked quickly to the car, climbing in without a single look back. He knew that if he found her still watching him, he might go right back to her, pull her into his arms and kiss her until she was breathless. 

“Go,” he told the driver. He didn’t open his eyes until they were outside his flat.

****

**ooo**

At nine o’clock the following morning, Draco was standing, exhausted, his bleary eyes hidden behind a pair of dark, cheap sunglasses, in the Parkinsons’ back garden. He was overseeing the set-up of the garden, from the back door of the house, where Pansy would appear on her father’s arm, to the site of the ceremony, to the large tent being erected for the reception. He didn’t mind that the task had fallen to him; after all he’d seen a number of similar events carried off while growing up.

Still, it was a bit of an inconvenience, as Pansy had hired a wedding coordinator on what must have been fashion sense instead of talent. She was incompetent and kept coming to Draco for advice on how things should look, where she should put something … He suspected she might be trying to gain his attention and hoped his sharp retorts and annoyed glares would send the message that he wasn’t interested.

They were standing by the pond discussing the swans when a servant of the Parkinsons’ begged pardon and asked for Draco’s attention. 

“Sir, there are two people here, asking for you.”

Draco sighed impatiently. He really did not have time to spend in pointless chatter, but perhaps the two people were with the florist, who was already an hour late.

“Who are they?” he asked.

“A Mr. Ron Weasley and a Miss Hermione Granger.”

He glanced up, surprised. “Where are they?”

“I put them in the drawing room, Sir.”

“Thank you.” Draco excused himself and quickly made his way through the mayhem and into the house. Hermione was sitting rigidly on the sofa and Ron was pacing in front of her when Draco entered the room. Both looked at him.

“Weasley, Hermione,” he said, assuming a dignified yet relaxed stance, his hands clasped. “How may I help you?”

Hermione stood; Ron approached him, his expression anxious. “Malfoy, I want to talk to Pansy.”

Draco glanced at Hermione, her face unsettled, then back at Ron. “Does this have anything to do with what we talked about the other week?”

“Yes,” Ron answered eagerly. “Exactly that. I’ve decided to take your advice.”

“Cutting things a bit close, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well, better … close than never, right?”

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked, staring at him with a furrowed brow.

“I’m … fine, why?”

“You’re still wearing the sunglasses. You’re inside now.”

“Are you hung over?” Ron asked. 

Draco rolled his eyes at Ron’s tactlessness and he was thankful neither of them could see it. “No,” he quipped.

“Then why—”

“Because, Weasley, I **look** like I’m hung over. That, or like I had only one and a half hours of terrible sleep last night and I’ve been up to my ears in wedding … stuff, dealing with morons since six this morning.”

“Oh! I’m sorry!” said Hermione.

“Why?” He knew she could see the raised eyebrow over the rim of the glasses.

“It’s my fault you were up so late.”

Draco felt like smiling for the first time all day. Even seeing her moments before hadn’t managed to break through his terrible mood and pounding headache. The corner of his mouth lifted every so slightly. “Hardly.”

The wedding coordinator walked in at that moment, her sunglasses still on and a quill at the ready. “Draco, the flowers are here. Finally.” She regarded Ron and Hermione indifferently.

“Why are you telling me this? You are the one in charge of this … production.”

“Where should I have them put?” she asked, ignoring his acidic tone.

“Wherever they’re supposed to be put. You do know where that is, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then … put them there.”

She nodded and left. Draco rolled his eyes at her back, mumbling about her ineptitude.

Ron sniggered. “That wasn’t very nice, you know. Hey, she looked ‘hung over’ too, Malfoy. Did you and she—”

Draco watched in astonishment as Ron suddenly stopped talking and reached for his mouth as though his tongue were somehow incapacitated, his eyes bulging. It ended as quickly and inexplicably as it had begun, and Ron whirled on Hermione. 

“What was that for?” he demanded angrily.

“Oops,” she said innocently. “You know I’m not perfect at this, Ron. Sometimes, if I just wish for something, it happens. I’ll try and control myself.”

“Pansy,” Draco said loudly before Ron could say more, “is in Paris.”

“France?” 

“No, Georgia. Of course, France. She and the other women are at a salon getting their hair done. And such.”

“Please, Malfoy. I need to speak to her as soon as possible.”

Draco sighed. “International travel is difficult to arrange on such short notice, and the Parkinsons have shut down their fireplace for the day. Most people will be arriving by Portkey.”

“I know that if anyone can do it, Malfoy, it’s you.”

“I’m not very susceptible to flattery, Weasley. However, I will help you anyway.” Draco thought quickly through everything they would have to do in order to get to France and back. He had the salon’s card somewhere in the house and he Summoned it.

“We need a fireplace—my place will do. I’ll need to speak with the Department of International Travel … I’ll send Pansy the bill, of course … and we’ll need directions to the salon from wherever we end up in Paris.”

“You’re coming?” Ron said, incredulous.

“Naturally. Do you think I would miss this?”

****

**ooo**

Two hours later, the three of them were standing outside one of wizarding Paris’s premiere salons, peering through the windows. Draco couldn’t see Pansy or anyone from her party.

“Should I go in?” Hermione asked. “They might let me in without an appointment more easily than you two.”

“This is Paris,” said Draco. “A man walking into a salon is not at all uncommon or interesting. We can, however, rule Weasley out for the job; no one would quite believe he frequented this place.”

“I’m not going in anyway,” said Ron, his face white.

“I’ll go,” said Hermione, leaving the men and disappearing behind the glass door. Draco watched her walk to the front desk and after a moment, follow the receptionist into the salon.

“I’m gonna be sick,” said Ron.

“Breathe. You’ll be okay.”

“She’ll say yes?”

Draco smirked. “Depends on the question. Are you backing down?”

“No,” Ron said firmly.

Hermione emerged after a few minutes scowling furiously, with Pansy close behind her. Ron sucked his breath in sharply when he saw Pansy and pushed away from the window. 

“Ron?!” Pansy exclaimed, immediately reaching for her hair, which was full of various hair controlling devices Draco didn’t recognize. 

“Hey,” Ron said nervously.

Pansy looked at Draco and seemed to calm down a bit; she stopped trying to pull things out of her hair, which only resulted in her hair sticking out where it wasn’t supposed to. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I … I want to talk to you.” Ron seemed to have discovered his courage; his voice was convincing enough.

“Okay …”

Ron took her arm gently in his hand and led her down the street, away from Draco and Hermione.

“What’s the matter with you?” Draco asked a still obviously upset Hermione.

She looked at him and cracked a smile. “They tried to convince me to stay in the salon.”

“Why?”

“My hair. They seemed to have taken it as a personal affront against all things haute couture and I could tell they were itching to tame it. Or try.” She sniffed.

He laughed. “That … that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard since … well, something you said at dinner last night.”

She finally smiled, then looked down the street at where Ron and Pansy were talking. “What do you think will happen?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I **think** she’ll respond favorably, though exactly how, I have no idea.” He leaned against the wall and tucked his hands in his pockets. 

“Really?” Hermione mused, looking again at her friend. “I would have thought you’d be more certain, since you told Ron he should tell her the truth. I thought you had insider information, or something.” 

“No, unfortunately. Pansy is … hard to read. She doesn’t show her feelings easily, keeps people at a distance, on the surface; even me. She’d never mentioned marriage before Theo, so I figured she must love him the most. Now … it’s got me thinking that maybe agreeing to marry Theo was a really bad reaction to her breakup with Ron.”

“So … why _did_ you tell Ron to tell her?”

Draco shrugged. “I think it’s generally better for people to know these things. Pansy is my friend; I have never presumed to know how she feels about anything. If Ron is in love with her, then she deserves to know. I’d want to know, if it were me.”

“You would? You mean, if you were about to marry one person, but another person was in love with you?”

“Well, yes. I would imagine that knowing is better than not knowing. Wouldn’t you?”

She nodded, biting her lip and frowning. “What about … in general? What if Ron _hadn’t_ been in love with Pansy, but he just … fancied her? A lot? Do you still think he should have told her?”

Draco checked on Pansy; she had her arms crossed over her chest, one knee cocked, and a petulant expression on her face. “I … yes. If it might have saved Pansy from making a mistake …”

“Right …” said Hermione, more to herself than to him. 

He wasn’t really paying attention to her at that moment, as Pansy’s entire demeanor had changed to what appeared to be happiness. 

“Draco? Um … there’s something …”

Pansy lunged, threw her arms around Ron’s neck and kissed him with gusto at that precise moment and Draco didn’t hear the rest of what Hermione said through the rushing in his head. He felt an odd sense of relief, seeing his friend acknowledge something that was probably the best thing she’d ever been a part of. More than every before, Draco felt as though Pansy would be okay. 

“Wow …” Hermione breathed next to him, watching their friends. “I guess …”

“There’s the answer.”

When Ron and Pansy finally broke apart, they were grinning wildly, and they clasped hands and walked back to where Draco and Hermione were waiting.

“So …” Draco said, smiling.

“Oh, Merlin, I have no idea what to do, Draco,” Pansy began. “There’s so much to think about, so much to fix …”

“I take it you’re calling off the wedding then?”

“Yeah,” Pansy replied, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry?”

“It’s fine with me, I just want you to be happy. You know that. I’ll do whatever I can to help fix this.”

“Thank you. Um … Ron and I …” Pansy glanced at him. “Want to get married. Tonight.”

“Here, in Paris,” Ron finished.

“What?” cried Hermione.

Draco chuckled. “Of course you do. Why do things the easy way?”

“What do we have to do?” Pansy asked.

“To start, you have to tell Theo. I will **not** do that for you. Next, your parents. Then Weasley’s parents. The guests must be told somehow … I suggest letting them enjoy the reception you would have had, since there’s no way to inform them before they arrive at your house. They’ll be singing your praises in the morning for the lovely party.”

“I want Harry to be here,” Ron said to Hermione. “He’s supposed to get back today, but I don’t know when.”

“Okay. I’ll find Harry,” she said. “Pansy, I suggest you and Ron go into the salon and tell your mother. She can take care of the details of the reception, dealing with your guests, all of that. Then you need to tell Theo, and Ron needs to tell his parents. Oh, Ron, your mum is going to be hysterical.”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug that clearly said, ‘I don’t really care.’

“Do you want her here? She’ll disown you if she doesn’t get to see you marry.”

“Reckon so, then. But we just want it to be us, and you two, and Harry and Ginny. Um … would you … since you’re going to be there anyway …”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes. I’ll tell your mother that you’ve broken up a wedding and are getting married tonight, and don’t want her there. That’ll go over well.”

“Oh, and George will be glad to see you. He’s been asking when you were going to come around.”

Hermione blushed and Draco felt an overwhelming urge to give Ron a bloody nose. The last thing he needed was to think about the possibility of Hermione and George Weasley. “Ron and Pansy will stay here, then. Hermione, you’re going to find Potter, and I will …”

“While Pansy is talking with Theo, someone needs to help Ron find a place to have this ceremony, find someone to perform it, get the necessary paperwork filled out …”

“Why him?” said Ron.

“I know French, Weasley. We’re in France. It makes sense.”

“Fine.”

“Good,” said Draco. “We’ll meet back here by … what? Four?”

“Sure,” said Pansy happily. 

“Four it is.” He looked intensely at Hermione for a few seconds, willing her to somehow understand everything he couldn’t say or possibly hope to articulate. Like he was worth it, worth something, that he could be good for her, and he would prove it if she would give him a chance. 

She gave him a small smile before turning to make her way back to the International Floo Center. 

****

**ooo**

The impromptu wedding went off without a hitch and Draco had never seen Pansy so happy. He and Hermione stood beside her while Harry and Ginny stood by Ron, as they exchanged vows of unending love and faithfulness. Though he couldn’t see Hermione, Draco was acutely aware of her proximity. She had changed into a very pretty dress for the occasion and he was somewhat glad she was standing behind him, as he didn’t think he’d be able to take his eyes off her if he could see her.

That wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.

After Pansy and Ron had left for their honeymoon, Ginny suggested the four of them have dinner and the idea was favorably accepted. The experience wasn’t one Draco had been through before but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He caught Ginny sending him strange, implicative looks all evening, but he ignored her.

The rest of the weekend felt entirely empty without Hermione, and Draco decided he hated it. Nothing could possibly be worse than not knowing how she felt … he needed to take his own advice and admit his feelings to her. He wasn’t all that optimistic, but there were looks she had given him recently that he couldn’t explain. Maybe … But he wasn’t ready to hope or to think about hoping.

Monday morning crept by. Draco went through his daily job duties, reshelving books, dusting shelves, and generally keeping the library orderly. He would see her at lunch, he’d decided. As the minutes ticked off the clock he wasn’t watching, his nerves went from slightly frayed to spastic to painful. 

At precisely eleven twenty-eight, Draco set down the stack of books he’d been holding and walked out of the library.

Carol was at her desk, a large quill out, circling pictures of the week’s famous faces when Draco arrived. She looked up at him and smirked; he was in no mood for games or dawdling.

“I would like to see Hermione Granger,” he said without waiting for her to greet him.

She sighed and nodded. “Wait here.”

A few minutes later, Hermione emerged from the mysterious door, a pretty smile on her face. It grew when she saw him. “Hey!”

“Hi,” he said, his voice strained.

“How are you? How was your day yesterday?”

“Fine,” he said, distracted; there was room in his mind for only one thing: not screwing up. “Want to have lunch?”

Her eyes sparkled in the flickering lights of the hallway. “Oh, yes, that sounds nice.”

He nodded and returned toward the lift, his thoughts racing. 

“Draco? You all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” he answered absently.

Once on the lobby floor, Hermione automatically headed in the direction of the cafeteria. Draco called her back. “I thought we’d go somewhere … out.”

“Okay.”

Again they walked in silence, Draco barely paying attention to where he was going, unconcerned about the bustling city around him. When they reached a busy intersection, Hermione held firmly onto his arm to prevent him from stepping into traffic.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

“What’s going on with you?” she demanded. “You’re being completely unlike yourself. Have I done something?”

“No,” he answered quickly, looking at her. “Of course not.”

“Then what?” She folded her arms and leaned back on one leg; she wasn’t moving until he explained himself.

“I … not here, okay?”

“Then where?”

He glanced around, frustrated to realize he had no idea where they were, much less where he could find something he recognized. They were on an inconspicuous street corner, people and cars moving around them like water through a shallow stream. Where was the best place to confess yourself? Would the opposite corner be better? _Where indeed_? 

“Here is all right then,” he said, scanning those immediately around them. They were waiting for the light to change so they could cross the street. “Maybe down that way a bit,” he said, pointing over Hermione’s shoulder.

“Draco … you’re starting to really worry me,” she said, allowing him to lead her by the wrist into the shadow of a tall building.

“Me too,” he muttered. He stopped when they weren’t as in the open as before, the few people walking by barely paying them any attention. Finally, he looked into her eyes. “Well, here goes.”

“Here goes what?”

“The truth. The thing is … Hermione … that I … I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re brilliant, and amazing, and beautiful …” He glanced away, unable to look into her eyes which had widened instantly the moment he started talking, promising to drown him if he got too lost in them. “I’ve never felt this way, ever, and if you don’t feel the same, then it’s fine, it would be exactly what I’d deserve.”

He inhaled deeply, the faint scent of a greasy diner drifting on the wind; his stomach growled, an odd mixture of hunger and nerves.

Draco looked at the sidewalk. “I … I’ve never done this before …. Would you go out with me?”

She didn’t look at him; surprise flicked across her face. Then she slowly smiled. “You’ve never asked a girl out before?”

Slightly confused by her response, Draco said, “Not like this.”

“How is this different?”

She hadn’t said no yet … maybe that was good. “Because I want to go out with you tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after, and the night after.”

Her eyes lit up but she merely said, “Oh.” They watched the people walk across the street, one large, huddled mass pushing its way onward. “Why would I want to go out with you?” she asked hesitantly

He hadn’t exactly expected her to say yes, but he never would have guessed she would be so mean. As though she knew exactly what to say in order to cause the most pain. What had he been thinking? 

“Draco?”

He scowled at her and shoved his hands in his pockets. “If you don’t like me, it’s fine, just say so.”

“No! I mean … I want you to tell me why I would want to go out with you.”

“I **heard** you,” he said loudly. A few people waiting at the stop light turned and looked at them. “I was under the impression that if you liked someone, you would also want to go out with them.”

She smiled sadly. “I’m not sure liking you is enough.”

He felt as though he’d been speared through the gut and left to slowly bleed to death. He completely understood what she meant. “Right. Fine. Thanks for that,” he spat.

Hermione grabbed his arm and pulled him against the wall of the nearest building. “Draco! I’m not saying no! I just … I mean, why me? Why us?”

He stood facing her, scowling, her hand still lightly holding onto his arm, sending shoots of electricity through his veins. For a few seconds, he tried to find a good reason why she might want to go out with him, but it was just as useless an attempt as it had been over the last eleven months. 

Jerking his arm out of hers more forcefully than he’d intended, he said, “I can’t think of a single reason why you’d want to go out with me. I’ve got a dead end life, even _after_ I get through this prison sentence they’ve packaged as a ‘job.’ I’ve got no future, and a crap past, no money … absolutely nothing to offer you. I can’t imagine why you’d want me.” 

Hermione’s face softened immediately and she reached her hand up and tentatively touched his cheek. He flinched at the contact, but only slightly, and then she cupped his cheek more confidently. He resisted the urge to lean into her touch.

The kindness in her eyes sent fresh, shooting pains through his heart. “I want to go out with you,” she whispered, and he couldn’t believe his ears. He’d barely had time to begin to process what she’d said when she spoke again. “But I’m terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Your … colored past.”

“It’s the past,” he said simply.

She bit her lip, moving her thumb ever so slightly along his jaw; he didn’t even think she knew she was doing it. “How … past?”

He took a deep breath, surprised at how nervous he was. “Eleven and a half months, roughly, with two slip-ups.”

Her eyes widened. “So long? When … when was the last …”

“Nine months.”

She gave a sharp laugh. “Nine? All that … for me? Why?”

“I didn’t want anyone else. I **don’t**.”

“Promise me something,” she whispered, looking pleadingly into his eyes.

He could only nod.

“Promise … that you’ll never cheat on me.”

“Never,” he said without hesitation.

“How do you know? You’ve never been in a relationship?”

“I have no desire to hurt you, no desire to … be with anyone …”

“Not today, but what about in six months when you get tired of me, or you realize you’ve made the biggest mistake of your life, or—”

“Hermione,” he interrupted, turning her chin so that she was forced to look at him. “I promise. All you can do is believe me, or not.”

She nodded, her chin still in his hand. “One more thing,” she said when he’d released her. “Promise me this isn’t some kind of game, that you’re not just interested in ‘conquering’ me, and then you’ll be off.”

“I promise. I have never felt this way about anyone, Hermione. I would like to think that I’m capable of carrying my share of a relationship, even though I’ve never tried.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” she said, smiling soothingly. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been thinking about this so much lately, trying to decide what I should do …”

“You’ve been thinking? About me?” he repeated.

“Yes! Didn’t you notice my interest? I thought for sure you’d kiss me the night of the awards dinner. I was still staring after you in shock as your car drove away.”

“I … had my reasons, one of which was that I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it,” he mumbled, meeting her eyes. “I **care** about you, Hermione. Every bit, in every way.” He smiled a half-smile. “Please don’t keep me waiting any longer.”

“Ask me again.” Her eyes danced.

“Will you go out with me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, then her face broke into a huge grin. 

A thousand emotions hit him at once but he locked his eyes on hers, focusing on her incredible glow. He would be the best man he could be and he’d try to be better, a man who would make her happy, help her fulfill her dreams, anything to give her what she needed. 

Hesitantly, Draco reached a hand out and took hers, marveling at how they fit together so well. Then his stomach growled. Hermione giggled.

“Oh that’s right, it’s lunchtime.”

“Is the world turning? I lost track.”

She rolled her eyes but squeezed his hand. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” He checked his watch. “We have about fifteen minutes before we should be back at work. Want to try and get something? Are you with me?”

“Absolutely.” She grinned.

 

****

**ooo**

“So, Mr. Malfoy. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Thomas Covington was an older wizard and the Head of the Department of Mysteries. He was relaxing in his large office chair, looking appraisingly at Draco.

“You as well, Sir,” Draco returned, sitting opposite him. 

“I’ve heard a lot about you, good and bad.”

“Don’t believe half of it,” he replied with a smile.

“Which half?” 

Draco laughed. “The bad half, obviously.”

Covington smiled with his eyes. “So, Malfoy. Why do you want to work for the Department of Mysteries?”

“Honestly? It’s infinitely better than my current job.”

“That goes without saying, but … humor me.”

Fortunately, Hermione had prepped him for a whole slew of questions her boss might ask, this one included. “Aside from the obvious,” Draco said, sitting slightly forward in the chair, “I would value the chance to pay society back in a way other than fulfilling my ‘sentence.’ The Department of Mysteries would provide ample opportunities to do good for wizarding kind.”

“Very pat answer,” Covington said.

“Very. But true, nonetheless.”

“You want to give back to society.”

“Yes. I won’t lie to you—I’m not turning into an altruistic saint, or even striving for such a status. I know myself too well, and frankly, the world isn’t ready for really good Malfoy. I am perfectly willing to accept my library job as my punishment, but, given the choice, I would rather work here.”

Covington picked up a bound document. “I know you didn’t write this,” he said, handing it to Draco; it was the paper Hermione had submitted to the contest. “But Granger said you still know what you’re talking about. Wow me.”

Draco blinked, then looked down at the cover page; his name was there in thick, black letters. This would be no problem.

After twenty minutes, Covington stopped him. “Thank you. I’m sufficiently ‘wow’d.’ Well, Malfoy, this is all cleared through the Ministry. All you have to do is sign these documents …” He indicated a small stack to his left. “… And you’ll be moved out of the library. Working here would still be considered part of your sentence. You must work for me for one year; after that, I’m considered to be … responsible for you. If I want to keep you, I can, and if not, I can let you go and you’ll be free. How does that sound?”

“Shouldn’t I read through those papers carefully before signing?”

Covington chuckled. “Yeah, in a perfect world. I’m afraid I don’t have time though; we need your answer within … half an hour. Tell me, Malfoy … how long have you been with Hermione?”

“Um … six weeks on Monday.”

“Do you want to work here because of her?”

“No. Her working here doesn’t hurt my desire, but she has little to no influence over this decision. She is perfectly content with a boyfriend who works in a library, other than thinking it’s a waste of my brain.”

“Good. If you two … split before your year is up, I don’t want any funny business. Leave that part of your life outside, understand?”

“Absolutely, Sir.”

“I think that’s all … oh, your salary. It will definitely go up, but the Ministry doesn’t want you to have the capacity to get into trouble through financial means.”

Draco chuckled. “I’ve made do with next to nothing for over seven years; I wouldn’t know quite what to do with more … well, that’s not even close to true. But I understand their position.”

“What do you say then? Would you like to work here? Or do you want to return to the library for thirteen more years?”

“Do I really have to answer?”

“Afraid so.”

“Then, yes. Absolutely.”

Covington banging an open palm on the desk once in a show of finality. “Good. You start Monday. Don’t be late.”

Draco nodded and Covington dismissed him. Hermione was waiting outside the office and she pushed off the wall when she saw him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Did you take it?” she asked.

“Of course. Did you think I might not?”

“Honestly …? With you, I never really know. I might **think** I know how you’re going to react to something, but then you do something that throws me off.”

He grinned. “Have to keep you coming back, don’t I?”

“There is no danger of me going anywhere and you know it.”

“Good.” He kissed the top of her head. “Walk me back to my job?”

“Sure.” She smiled her brilliant smile at him and he thought for what must have been the millionth time since she’d said yes to him that he was the luckiest bloke in the world.


End file.
